News

To say that my father and I do not have a good relationship is to put the actual situation in the most diplomatic of terms.
We haven't spoken more than 5 words to each other in as many years. And that is all for the best. The last time I recall feeling something positive for my dad was before I turned 10. After that it was really all downhill; specifics are just not that important anymore.
Last year I got a call from my mom that my dad had a stroke. After the initial shock, though, I wasn't all that upset. More just interested in the lack of emotion in my response.
Then apart from a few jokes about him made to various family members at various times, he hasn't really entered into my thoughts.
A couple of nights ago I was on the phone with my mother, discussing the new fridge she had to purchase to replace the current one which wasn't nearly keeping up it's end of the appliance bargain. Somehow we got onto the subject of my father and in passing she mentions him being seen with a pound of butter, stupid after his heart surgery.
Heart surgery? Huh?
I learn that my father had a quadruple bypass at some point a few months ago. My brothers knew about it at the time and my mother didn't find out till April. But no one thought to tell me. Now, granted, I'm not torn up about this; in fact I was more shocked that he hadn't kicked the bucket while on the table. However, I was bewildered as to why no one in my family thought it necessary to tell me about it.
Maybe my lack of compassion for the man might have influenced their decision or maybe the fact that he really has no effect whatsoever on my life.
Regardless of the reason, it would have been nice to know earlier.

I'm SUCH a Lightweight

After almost 5 months in Boston, I finally had plans on a Saturday night this past weekend.
One of my coworkers - one of the cooler ones I might add - had a birthday party. It was a good time had by all...I got home at like 5:30 am so yes, it was a good time.
I forgot what it was like to hang out with a random collection of people, drinking, shooting the shit, getting totally piss ass drunk, and hopefully making a decent enough impression to be invited to the next party.
The majority of the people at the party either currently work or previously worked at my store. And somehow we managed to talk about the store only half the time. The age range was between 16 and 30. And yes, all were drunk at various points in the night.
If I remember correctly I only had 3 glasses of wine and one diet coke with orange vodka (not something I would recommend) and yet I was wasted. I was hung over till around, oh an hour ago. Thankfully there was no vomit or blackouts, just some woozy conversation and some very unpleasant nausea for most of today.
But hey, it's all in the name of fun.

A Family Place

On Monday I discovered something very very disturbing about my workplace.
I walked into the bathroom only to be hit with the overwhelming stench of human feces. Now this was not like someone pooped, flushed and the smell was still lingering. This was like someone was crapping into their hands and then smearing the product on the walls a la Jackson Pollock.
I turn the corner to see an older woman, standing in front of the sink sans pants. Her legs and underpants are covered in fecal matter. Not wanting to embarrass her further (and wanting to get the hell outta there) I quickly fled the scene. I notified a manager of the situation and went to go clear my head.
Of course I had to share this news with a few of my fellow coworkers. Not all, mind you, just the ones with whom I spend the day in an odd one-upmanship of who can find the oddest thing the store sells. I saw one of these people and proceeded to attempt to tell them about what I saw. I say attempt because apparently I am five years old and cannot say "A woman crapped herself in the bathroom" without giggling for ten minutes.
My coworker looked at me and said "I have no sympathy for you women." Indignant, I demanded an explanation.
His explanation: occasionally (OK, pretty much on a daily basis) they have to remove various pornographic magazines from the men's room.
That's right. Men come into a bookstore, take a porno mag from the shelves, walk through the children's section to the bathroom, and proceed to jack one off. It boggles the mind.
My comment was that I firmly believed that it was worth the $5.99 to masturbate in the comfort of one's own home. But it would seem I am wrong.
When I approached another coworker to relay both pieces of information - the goings on in both male and female lavatories - he told me that he already knew about what happened in the men's room and that all the male employees have had to remove said magazines.
It has been almost 5 days since this revelation and I am still totally and utterly skeeved out.